


It's Been A While

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlolly - Freeform, sherlolly angst, sherlolly romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13431486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Sherlock is struggling with sobriety, with Molly gone off on holiday, he doesn't know what to do with himself. When he turns on the radio, It's Been a While by Staind comes on, and he can't help but reflect on the lyrics, and his life with his Molly.





	It's Been A While

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to this song and became overwhelmed with the need to write this. I highly recommend you listen to it!

            It was a surprisingly sunny day in January for London, people were out and about in the street bellow 221B, enjoying the air even though they had to be bundled up to keep the chill air away. But there was a decidedly cheerful attitude that seemed to rise from the street and into 221B, and its lone occupant was about to lose his mind with impatience.

            Molly was gone. And she would be gone for another 4 days visiting with her mother, the two having decided to take a breather together in the South of France. Molly, and even her mother, had asked him to join them, telling him they didn’t mind his company but he had refused, not wanting to intrude on the mother and daughter.

            The old Sherlock wouldn’t have even waited for an invitation from them, he would’ve just showed up whether they wanted him to or not. Too impatient, too uncaring for the sentiment of a mother bonding with her daughter.

            But this new Sherlock he was striving to become, the Sherlock that belonged to Molly, that was planted so firmly in her love and caring, cherishing ever lesson in humanity she taught him, knew it would be best to let them have that alone time. Panic had filled him at the prospect of being alone for five whole days, his mind palace feeling as if it were under attack at the thought of being alone, with his thoughts. He hadn’t been given the opportunity to be alone since Sherrinford, his Molly filling his nights and days with all that he ever needed.

            Sherlock’s mind was in such chaos that he had reached for his phone to text his brother, just to bother him with his nonsense, maybe send pictures of delicious chocolate cakes to rile him up. He thought about going to John and Rosie, of finding solace in his friend and goddaughter, or even going down to have a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson, or even bugging Lestrade for a new case but somehow, he preferred to be alone.

            The allure of solace beckoned him, a mistress with a cruel smile crooking her finger at him, reminding him of all that he could do alone, in his darkened flat, with no one to know, no one to judge….

            All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Wiggins…

            All he had to do was send one simple text and Wiggins would hand deliver what he needed…

            Just one simple text…and he would be in another real, his boredom alleviated, his need for Molly injected straight into his vein instead of filling him with dread.

            He sat down on the floor facing the fireplace, deliberately taking off his shoes to remind himself that Molly would be back, that she hadn’t abandoned him. Taking a deep breath, he conjured his love up in his mind palace, finding the elaborate suite of rooms he had given her. She found him there, stretched out on the sumptuous bed wearing a lace gown that hid nothing from his hungry eyes. Her smile was radiant as she opened her arms out for him, inviting him and he took the room in three quick steps, collapsing on his knees in front of her as she cradled his head against her chest.

            “Don’t do it Sherlock,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair, soothing him, “please don’t do it. Find the strength, for me. I know you can.”

            He had to stay strong…he couldn’t face disappointing Molly again.

            She would forgive him, she always forgave him but knowing he had disappointed her…knowing he had fallen in her eyes was something he couldn’t handle.

            Sherlock remembered the last time he’d relapsed, when he’d been after Culverton Smith. She had nursed him back to health after Smith had been apprehended, had held his head in her lap, smoothed away his aches and pains, listened to him howl and curse as the poison left his system. She’d become his strength as he’d gone through withdrawals, and she was the only reason he had lived to see beyond the dark tunnel of drug use.

            Gripping his hair in frustration, he reached over and turned on the radio, something he rarely did, tuning it to the first station that didn’t have static just to distract himself, maybe work himself into a lather about the falling standard of music on the radio.

            But the voice that came through caught his attention and he frowned at the refrain before a smoky, craggy voice began to sing along with the guitar strums:

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I could hold my head up high_

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he thought about Molly, thought about all that they had been through together. He remembered the shame he’d felt that first time she’d seen him using, after John and Mary’s wedding, remembered clearly the tears that had shimmered in her eyes, the strength in her quivering voice and the sting of her palm against his cheek. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye, hadn’t been able to think of himself as a man worthy of holding her gaze until much later, as if he had to earn her respect.

            And she had made him work hard to earn it.

            But that was his Molly. Holding him to a higher standard because she believed he was capable of more than just injecting poison into his veins under the guise of experimentation or work.

            He remembered the anger that had shimmered to life when he’d told her about his plan to apprehend Culverton Smith, remembered how they’d stood in her kitchen, working out the details of her ambulance delivery. When he’d told her he would actually start using again…that he actually had….he hadn’t been able to look at her, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating.

            _Fine._

That was all she had said, and he hadn’t been able to look up, hadn’t needed to, the tears were there in her voice, in the way it quivered and her hitched breathing. He hadn’t been able to look at her in the ambulance either, not even when she’d crawled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her face pressed against his throat as she’d cried and he’d pretended he wasn’t.

_You’re going to kill yourself Sherlock, and I don’t think I can live without you._

He had finally looked at her when she’d seen him through the withdrawals, when he’d held her strong hands in his and promised that she would never have to go through that again. 

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I first saw you_

            He smiled at the memory of their first meeting at uni. Sherlock had first spotted her in their organic chemistry class, sitting in the front, twirling a pen absently and expertly between her fingers as she listened to the lecture, answering the professor’s idiotic questions with rapid succession, without missing a beat. Her hair had been shorter then, and he’d never forget the hideous jumper she’d been sporting. He had dismissed her as a good-two-shoes, prim and proper.

            But this was Molly Hooper, and their first meeting had been his first lesson about her. He’d been sneaking a smoke behind the science building, bored out of his wits as he’d lounged against one of the old columns, determined to finish the whole pack before subjecting himself to the next class. She’d come and quietly sat next to him with a shy smile, lighting a cigarette of her own, not saying anything, simply sitting beside him.

            That had become their routine, never speaking to each other until three weeks later.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I could stand on my own two feet again_

            Sherlock swiped at his eyes, wondering what had shaken loose in his mind palace with his absence to bring on so much…moisture. Maybe it was the memory of the way she had helped him walk out of the hospital after his run-in with Culverton Smith, the way she had wrapped her arm around his waist, her jaw set in a stubborn line as she’d helped him to his bedroom. He’d nearly collapsed on the stairs going up, but she’d caught him. _I got you_ , she’d murmured, carefully helping him lay down on the bed, methodically stripping him of his shoes, socks, shirt and trousers. _It’s going to be ok_ she’d promised him, helping him put on clean sweatpants and t-shirt. _I’m here_ she’d murmured when he’d reached out for her blindly, his entire body on fire as the poison slowly left him. _I’m here_ she’d promised him, soothing his hair away from his sweat stained forehead.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I could call you_

             He checked his phone. That wasn’t quite true…he’d called her that morning for a brief good morning, unable to text her, needing to hear her voice. The call had been less than 2 minutes, he’d been unwilling to keep her for long.

            But a phone call made 6 hours ago was too long.

            For them, phone calls seemed to be detriment, something to stay away from, something to be feared. That phone call…that damned phone call.

            He still had nightmares about that coffin, still woke up in a cold sweat from dreams where she had been too upset with him, and rightly so, and there had been explosives. The flash of the explosion, the sound, the knowledge that he’d lost her, lost his Molly…

            Sherlock remembered the fallout from that, remembered his dogged determination to get to her as soon as he’d made sure John and Mycroft were being treated, that his sister was safely taken back to Sherrinford, exhausted he’d broken into her flat just to look into her eyes. just to reassure himself that he hadn’t failed her, that she’d been smart enough to know that he loved her, had always loved her, without him having to tell her.

_And everything I can't remember_

_As fucked up as it all may seem_

            Over the course of their relationship, Sherlock knew he had said some awful things to her. Remembered the Christmas that he’d broken her heart, where she’d finally called him out, remembered a whole slue of moments between them when he had said hurtful things.

            But she sometimes, in her teasing, joking way, reminded him of things that he didn’t remember saying. Like the way he had manipulated her by complimenting her hair, or insulting the way her lips were shaped, or how small her breasts were.

            Molly…Molly always forgave him though. She demanded an apology but she knew him better than to hold it against him, knew him better than to think he had actually understood what he said. Maybe that was worse but…

            A clear memory brightened in his mind…in the middle of withdrawals, leaning against the toilet bowl, shaking and his stomach on fire, crying and apologizing to her for everything he’d ever done or said to hurt her, everything that he remembered and didn’t remember. _Hush_ she’d told him, wiping his tears, the sweat from his face, one hand planted firmly in the center of his chest _it’s alright Sherlock, we’ll talk about it all later_. He vaguely remembered closing his eyes and falling asleep on the bathroom floor, the weight of her hand on his chest. He’d woke up with his head in her lap, sprawled out. She’d told him she’d wanted to move to his bed but he’d been too heavy for her, so she’d just made sure he was comfortable.

            His Molly.

_The consequences that I've rendered_

_I've stretched myself beyond my means_

            He was sure that as long as he lived, he would never forget the ambulance ride into Culverton Smith’s layer, would never forget the way her strength, her façade had dissolved as soon as the ambulance doors had been shut. _Look at you!_ She’d started weeping, not just crying…weeping. For him, for the state of him. Her shoulders had been shaking with sobs, her beautiful eyes an endless river as she’d climbed into his lap without even waiting for his consent, without his permission. _I hate seeing you like this_ she’d wept against his throat, her breath hot as he’d sat motionless, unable to fathom how someone could care for him the way she did. How she could shed precious tears for him.

            Who was he?

            _Please don’t do this Sherlock_ she’d clutched his shirt in her fists, pressing herself against him as he’d finally moved his arms to hold her, letting himself relax into her grip _what if something goes wrong? What if John doesn’t get to you on time?_ her words had been rushed, frantic, worried… _I can’t live in a world without you_ she’d confessed _I’ve been living with the guilt…_ but she’d stopped there and he’d pressed her, heart in his throat, grateful that he was high out of his gourd as she’d confessed how guilty she felt at being glad that he was alive, that her world hadn’t shattered that day in the aquarium. He’d listened without breathing, incapable of breathing it seemed, as she’d told him she was tortured with guilt and self-hatred because he’d lived.

            He’d kissed her then. A clumsy kiss meant to sooth her, meant to calm her, licking her tears with frantic swipes of his tongue, consumed with need to comfort her, to ease her.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I can say that I wasn't addicted_

            Sherlock thought about that for a moment.

            He’d been sober for exactly 405 days.

            One year, one month, and four days.

            His addiction had changed, that was all. Instead of drugs, he was now addicted to Molly.

            Addicted to her smiles, her moods, her giggles…the way she sometimes snorted when she laughed at her own morbid jokes…her sighs, the way she always smiled in absolutely ecstasy when he entered her…the way she pursued her lips when she was upset with him…the absolute monster she turned into without her morning cup of coffee.

            He was addicted to her moans when he tasted her, the way she pretended to be mortified when he got frisky in public and they had to duck away somewhere quiet…the way she became impatient with him, demanding her orgasms when he tried to draw the moment out…the way she smiled in a devilish manner before taking him into her mouth…the arch of her neck when she rode him….

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I can say I love myself as well_

            Had he ever loved himself?

            Sherlock lay back at this thought, double checking that the door to the flat was shut and no one would barge in to find him prone with tear stained cheeks.

            He couldn’t really answer that question.

            Off the cuff he would say that yes he did. He took care of his body, for the most part, knew that he had above average intelligence, to say the least. He was proud of his abilities to deduce, to solve riddles and puzzles unlike anyone else.

            But was that simple arrogance, born of knowledge of his mental abilities? Or was that love?

            Did he love himself the way he loved Molly? The way he loved his brother? Parents? John? Mrs. Hudson?

            Or did he dismiss himself as nothing more than the vehicle which carried his mind?

            Could he love Molly the way he did, without thought, instinctively, passionately, desperately, but not love himself?

            Frowning at the ceiling, he wondered where he’d picked up such extraordinary ideas about love…and realized it was Molly’s influence. _Be patient with yourself darling_ she’d told him after he’d started his visits to Sherrinford, returning broken and frustrated with his shattered heart. _Let yourself heal_.

            He suddenly had the urge to call her, to talk to her about this new and puzzling idea.

            Of loving himself…

            But he couldn’t call her, and ended up tacking a mental note to his mind to talk to her when she got home.

            In 4 days.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I've gone and fucked things up just like I always do_

He smiled at this.

            He hadn’t fucked up, so to speak, in a while.

            The last time had been a minor tiff between them, her concern for his eating habits during a case bubbling to the surface. They’d ended up in a shouting match where she’d told him she would start force-feeding him pizza if she had to.

            He’d challenged her to try, and she’d taken a running tackle, successfully bringing him to the ground on his back. He’d easily rolled them over so that she was beneath him, his angry little tigress. He’d been laughing until he’d realized she was seriously upset with him, her eyes angry, biting him so hard on the side of the neck that John had asked him if he’d been attacked by a rabid animal. He’d told him it had been an angry tiger.     

_And it's been awhile_

_But all that shit seems to disappear when I'm with you_

            Molly was magic.

            He sometimes got the impression that his mind, his life, everything he touched was chaos. The memories, the truths that had started bubbling to the surface after Sherrinford crippling him, making him emotionally unstable. Those first few months, he’d been so angry at Eurus, at his parents, at Mycroft, at everyone within proximity of him. He’d been torn between mourning for Victor, and mourning for the child he’d been, and angry at himself for mourning such a trivial concept. How did you mourn yourself? What nonsense.   

            But Molly had understood him, had held him in bed, spooning him from behind with her lips pressed against his ear, soothing him, making the world disappear as she’d just breathed with him. He hadn’t realized how many times a day he held his breath, just holding an inhale in his lungs, unable to let go. Somehow Molly had caught that without even his awareness, and taught him to breath constantly, to never stop the flow. And the chaos receded, became manageable.

_Why must I feel this way?_

_Just make this go away_

_Just one more peaceful day!_

            He hadn’t wanted to go the rehab center Mycroft had recommended after Smith, hadn’t had the strength to leave the familiarity of his friends and family and be locked away from what he had started to understand was love. He had nothing against the rehab center, they’d treated him impeccably the last three times he’d been taken there at his brother and parents insistence.

            But this last time…he’d been too raw from Mary’s death to admit it to anyone, too shaken by the experience of being suffocated by Culverton Smith, his own voice ringing in his ears- weak, tired, pathetic as he’d begged for death. He’d insisted he could stay home, could get through it at 221B without any fear of relapsing.

            Of course, withdrawal was a monster of its own, somehow always manifesting itself at night time when he couldn’t be distracted, when it was Molly’s turn. He remembered the countless times he’d begged her to make it all stop, the haze of the pain, the fire in his belly unbearable as he’d twisted in his sheets, begging his Molly to make it all go away. _I wish I could_ had been her quiet voice _take my hand darling, I’m here_. _You’re not alone Sherlock_ she’d reminded him _you can do this, you can get through this, I promise_.

            That first night had been a waking nightmare. But when he’d woken up, Molly had been wrapped around him from behind, holding him so tightly that he didn’t know where he ended and Molly began. She’d kissed his ear _look, the sun is shining_ she’d reminded him, her voice quiet _I told you you’d get through it._

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I could look at myself straight_

            These days he had no problem look himself in the eye, in the mirror. He stood straighter, smiled quicker, had more patience for his nearest and dearest. He was still utterly impatient with the endless gaggle of clients that stomped through 221B but they didn’t matter.

            His eyes were clearer these days, his body felt lighter. It was an absurd notion to feel lighter, of course. In fact, he’d gained a few pounds since Molly had moved in with him. She baked when she was stressed out, and she had perfected her ginger nuts recipe to his detriment. Then how did he feel lighter?   

            Frowning at the ceiling, he wondered if he was starting to believe in a soul, in something beyond his physical realm. The flashes of Mary after her death had convinced him he’d been wrong about a lot of things, the miracle of his goddaughter growing up before his very eyes widening that gap in his knowledge of the spiritual, the almost physical warmth of Molly’s love in his life a palpable sensation that ensured him that he was ignorant.

            So the lightness he felt, was it his soul? or was it the proverbial baggage in his mind palace finally being shredded? The tension he’d held in himself, the forced inability to love that he had been carrying with him like a tumor was now treated and cured. He had a vision of his Molly, wearing the ratty t-shirt and sweatpants she wore to clean up their flat came to the surface of his thoughts, and he saw her in his mind palace, digging through his old boxes, throwing away the useless, mending the broken, cherishing what he’d neglected.

            When he looked himself in the eyes in the mirror these days, he saw the clarity in them, saw the truth of who he was and for the first time in a long time, he took pride in the man Molly Hooper loved.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I said I'm sorry_

Sherlock thought that many people didn’t remember their first apology, not in their adult lives anyway. But he was the rare exception, having reached the age of 34 before he’d actually apologized to anyone.

            Since he’d apologized to Molly.

            That Christmas had been a revelation in so many ways…He’d taken a risk against all logic, all thought and invited Molly Hooper to the little Christmas gathering at 221B. The party had been John’s idea, wanting to introduce his newest girlfriend to the constant occupants of their lives. Sherlock had invited Molly on a whim, after she’d casually mentioned that she didn’t plan on doing anything for Christmas except spending it at home alone, watching telly after going to midnight mass. Her mother would be in America, visiting her brother and his new baby, and Molly had insisted she didn’t mind.

            But Sherlock had seen her apartment, knew her love for the holiday in the elaborate Christmas tree, every room in the house seeming to explode with green, red, and silver with lights everywhere with the constant scent of cinnamon and baking cookies. She loved Christmas.

            So he’d invited her over, thinking maybe he’d find some comfort in her that night, maybe he’d tell her his secret. But she’d shown up in that dress, her hair done up, and the lipstick…the bright redness had been the most alluring thing he could fathom in that moment, more alluring that Irene Addler in the nude. Rage had coiled inside him, striking out like a viper when he’d thought she had a date, when he’d been convinced she’d dressed up for another man, that another man would smudge that red lipstick…that another would wear that red on his skin….Thoughts had bombarded him, petulant as he wanted to claim his right to have that red staining every inch of him…

            But he’d been so wrong, and he’d hurt her so deeply.

            His apology had been inadequate, but he had apologized. For the first time that he could recall.

_And it's been awhile_

_Since I've seen the way the candles light your face_

            Sherlock rubbed his mouth with his fingers, remembering the last time he’d watched Molly in candlelight. She’d surprised him for his birthday, only a few weeks ago. He’d come to find the entire flat dark, a trail of light leading to their bathroom where she’d set up candles of all shapes and sizes, the bathtub filled with hot water scented like roses with rose peddles floating on the surface. She’d known he would be stressed out, consumed by the new case at hand that would, days later, result in her trying to force feed him pizza.

            He’d stood in the door way of the bathroom, stunned, when she’d come up behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck as she’d reached around him to unbutton his coat. _Welcome home my love_ her voice had been so soft, washing over him like a benediction _I’ve missed you_ she’d removed his coat, his head falling back as her agile fingers had expertly unbuttoned his dark blue shirt, untucking it and slipping it from his shoulders as she pressed kisses to his bare skin _I figured you’d want a nice bath_ She’d unbuttoned his trousers, and he’d let himself become mindless, letting her strip him, listening to her instruct him to lift his foot _. Happy birthday darling_ she’d smiled, helping him lower himself into the tub, slipping off the silk bathrobe she’d had on to reveal her creamy smooth skin, turning off the light and plunging them into a candlelit cocoon.

            She’d climbed in with him, and he’d spread his legs to make room for her, holding her as she’d sat between them, reclining against him with her back pressed against his chest. They’d sat together quietly for a while, the only sound in the bathroom had been the gentle lapping of the water against their bodies, her sighs of contentment until she eventually reached behind her, stroking his erection, giving him a quiet orgasm that had rendered him immobile. Speechless.

            Her face in the candlelight had held the secrets of the universe for him, her smile as she’d turned around in his arms to press kisses to his throat, her fingers still wrapped around his now flaccid cock. _I love you Sherlock_.

_And it's been awhile_

_But I can still remember just the wa_ y _you taste_

            He grinned at the ceiling like a fool, remembering how they’d lurched to their bedroom after that, the hot water having rendered both of their muscles useless. But he’d pushed her back on their bed, spreading her beneath him, dipping his head between her thighs and tasting the rose scented water, the delicious wetness that came from Molly herself.

            His sexual experiences before Molly had been rather wild and done mostly as experimentation, as a way for him to understand human nature. He’d had sex of all variations with the same interest he conducted experiments with flames and eyeballs. But Molly had changed sex for him, had made him understand the physical need beyond just a release. He’d tasted her there, eaten her as he preferred to call it, and had become so lightheaded at the taste of her smoothness, the silk of her against his tongue, the way she had groaned and gushed for him, had made him addicted to her taste.

            He’d told her, more than once, that if he could just eat her for the rest of eternity, he would happily live between her thighs. She’d looked down at him, her fingers in her as she’d sat back in his arm chair, her legs wrapped around his shoulders, the strapless dress she’d been wearing pulled down beneath her breasts _We’d have to give your jaw a break every once in a while but we can make it work_ she’d grinned wickedly and he’d dipped his tongue inside her.

            _Eating Molly_.

            He was suddenly a cannibal and didn’t seem to mind it.

 _And everything I can't remember_  
As fucked up as it all may seem to be I know it's me  
I cannot blame this on my father  
He did the best he could for me

            His curse was that he remembered, his curse was that he knew better than to blame his father or mother, or Mycroft or even Eurus. Molly had taught him patience, patience with himself and with circumstances that he couldn’t control. Eurus’s mental illness was to do with a physical and chemical defect that she couldn’t prevent, that their parents couldn’t even begin to comprehend or control. Mycroft, with all his might, with all his mental prowess, couldn’t control or tame something so hugely beyond his authority.

            _Everything happens for a reason_ Molly told him _what good is to want to blame someone for it? It happens, you learn from it, you fill your heart with love and move on_ she’d told him more than once, holding him in her arms.

            The song came to a quiet close after a crescendo and the radio DJ destroyed his tranquility so much that he threw the nearest thing he could grab (the union jack pillow, it turned out) and threw it with such precise aim that the radio turned itself off.

            He let himself get lost in those memories of Molly, of his love for Molly, of the years and experiences they had shared together and reveled in all that was to come. Maybe marriage, to assuage their nagging parents, and children. The thought of Molly pregnant made him feel overprotective and aroused him beyond his comprehension, the cave man in him shivering to life as he thought of her growing with his seed, with his child.

            His buzzing phone pulled him out of his thoughts, and he vowed to yell at however it was that interrupted him. But it was a video call that he answered immediately.

            “Molly,” he breathed, looking at her face, his eyes tracing her features hungrily, desperately.

            “Hey love,” she grinned, and he could tell she was laying down on her back, just the way he was, her brown hair flared around her, her face clean and bright, “what are you doing?”

            “Bored,” he told her, raising a brow, “what are you doing? Are you alright?”

            She chuckled, “I’m alright Sherlock, everything’s fine,” she soothed, “I just miss you so much,” she let out a deep breath, “I just had to see your face, hear your voice.”

            “I love you,” he told her, without hesitation, without prompt, without thought as his heart beat for her.

And her alone.


End file.
